


Ghost of a Memory

by JoansGlove



Series: Within These Walls [1]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 11:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: A force like Joan Ferguson doesn't die on command...





	1. BEFORE

**Author's Note:**

> I've had so much fun writing this chilling little tale. Long live Joan Ferguson!
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my dear DirtyDuchess

I shouldn’t have screamed when my shouts were ignored. I should have measured out my breaths until I heard the rumble of tyres on the hard-packed dirt fade away and I was alone. But I didn’t. I let anger and pride and fear get the better of me. How easily I forgot all those years of training and conditioning my mind to overcome any obstacle it encountered. Turns out that it was all for naught when push came to shove.

I had been thrown the biggest curve ball of them all. Instead of making my way as planned to the stash box buried in my neighbour’s garden, I had been buried alive. This was the whore Novak’s doing, Novak and Stewart by my guess; Jackson wouldn’t have the guts to bury me alive – too weak.

But I’d be damned if the last face I ever saw was Smith’s, even if it was a poorly drawn portrait.

 

They say that fear is the mind-killer, and they’re right. I pushed it down, locked it away, and I set about calculating how long I might last before succumbing to CO2 poisoning. Larger than a standard coffin, I estimated that the box afforded me around five hours of usable air – plenty of time to plan and effect my escape. After all, history is littered with examples of people clawing their way out of a hasty grave, isn’t it?

Now, logically, the box should have presented me with no problem at all; I mean, knowing the Department as I do it was no doubt built with substandard materials and undoubtedly built by substandard labour. It should have been a doddle to crack those flimsy planks. Should have been…

 

Betrayed by my own body! Too broad to turn, too tall to draw up my knees, my only option was to punch and push a way through the lid, but to my immense horror I couldn’t! It gave a little with my initial blows, just enough to make me think that I could do it, and then nothing – not even a damned creak – _nothing!_ Never before in my life had I been so determined to succeed but all I got for my efforts was palmfuls of splinters, and a sudden and agonising crunching sensation in my wrist.

I wasn’t getting out of there – that much was painfully evident. I was going to suffocate in this cheap wooden box and no-one but Stewart would know where I was. What an ignominious end. What a rip-off! Hadn’t I always done what was best, no matter how distasteful? Wasn’t I one of the few who saw the bigger picture in all its uncomfortable glory? What right did those worms have to end my mission in such a cowardly way? Couldn’t do it one on one, couldn’t do it two on one, so had to leave it up to my own body to kill me. They were little more than human mosquitoes, their bite all but insignificant – but the contagion they carried was insidious and deadly.

 

It strikes me now how rationally I was thinking at that point. Make no mistake, I was acutely aware of the rising howl of futile panic from within its lead lined bunker but let’s be honest, what would I have achieved by giving into it? Nothing. I had a decision to make: namely, should I allow Novak and Stewart the kudos for killing me or should I take matters into my own hands? Suicide before it was too late? There was my sweater, I could have strangled myself – oh the absurdity, I know, to finish the job started by the women – although I was more inclined to open an artery with the surgical scissors I’d found; it would be messy but mercifully quick.

I knew that once I started with a headache, confusion and lethargy I would be in the early stages of hypercapnia, as it progressed I would start to experience muscle spasms, twitches and hand flapping as well as premature ventricular contraction and arrythmia, and that it would worsen with increasing disorientation and panic, hyperventilating as I struggled to suck in the last of the oxygen, finishing up with convulsions and unconsciousness before I finally died from organ failure. Not quite how I saw myself exiting this world.

 

A lesser person would probably have been begging their god for a reprieve, promising things far beyond their capabilities in exchange for a miracle, bargaining right up to the end. Me on the other hand, well, I’d witnessed first-hand the hypocrisy of religion in my father, and knew better than to waste my time. God is love they preach – but the men who preach know nothing of love or the nature of forgiveness – they do not believe in the power of the deity but rather in the power garnered from reading the holy words aloud each weekend. If their gods truly existed then they would have cast them into hell for their blasphemy.

 

I never believed in an afterlife, not even when my father reappeared. Jianna said that the Ancestors are always with us. She said that I was lucky to have him. My one consolation when she died had been that I would see her again too, but I didn’t, not even when I begged her. Perhaps she never really loved me, or perhaps just not enough. Maybe if I’d taken Shayne into my home I might have felt her presence, but the thought had terrified me; I knew that without Jianna to temper me I wasn’t the kind of person that a child should be around – I’m too much like my father for comfort. All I could do was watch over him from afar.

But oh, how I loved her! With Jianna I finally understood what all the fuss was about, what piece of me had been missing. I knew her for a little over one year but she would be with me forever. My Jianna was the kindest, most gentle soul, still so pure and innocent despite the rough life she’d led. I did things for her that I have done for no-one else. I still remember how she smelt, the feel of her under my hands, her skin on my lips. I never dared to make love to her yet I touched her as I have touched no-one else. I’d never known that one could feel such unselfish devotion until I met her, and the newness of all those emotions stripped me of all reason.

 

I remembered the first time that she called me her friend and how scared I’d been to say it back to her. My friendships have been few and far between (and always short-lived). I never caught the knack of them, never felt comfortable sharing my own company with someone else. But with Jianna it was different; each minute with her only fuelled my craving for more. If she asked then I told, I wasn’t ashamed to tell of my quiet, studious life or of my ambitions of Governorship. I even spoke about my father – something I had never done before. As we grew closer, she would tease me for my stiff manners (or rather, my ingrained sense of propriety) but she never teased me for my shyness, she thought it was sweet how nervous I’d been before her body became familiar to me.

I remembered the first time I kissed her. The baby was kicking and she’d pressed my palm to her hard belly, and then she’d caressed my wrist and stared at my mouth, licking her lips nervously as she looked at me and I couldn’t help myself. I was rocked to my core and I ran and hid as my quiet life exploded all around me. For her I broke every rule in the book. She was my alpha and omega, my first and only love, and she drove me to the brink of madness.

 

I think that what sent me into freefall was Doreen Anderson and her baby. Of course, I couldn’t help but compare her circumstances to Jianna’s (who wouldn’t?) but it’s not as if I confused them for one another is it? And I’d been nothing but fair with her, and expecting a certain degree of co-operation in return was just the nature of the beast in a place like Wentworth wasn’t it? But after the birth I just couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at her and not remember how she had mocked me, mocked my pain. I haven’t regretted much in my life but I regretted checking up on her that night. For the first time in many years I’d felt dirty and wrong. Oh, how I wanted the bliss of ignorance.

I had hoped that after the fire, after saving her child, that Doreen might have viewed me less harshly; when I ranked lower than her, when I showed that I was no-one to be feared any longer; but no, even when she joined Proctor’s crew, she still kept her distance – her gratitude lost beneath fear and distrust. I should have cut my losses then but I couldn’t; she reminded me of what it was like to have feelings and whilst dangerous, it was a very necessary thing to hold onto when I had shut myself off in order to survive.

 

You may be wondering how much time I had left; yes, so was I. The darkness was absolute, disorienting in the extreme. Was it hours or mere minutes? I didn’t know but it was becoming decidedly stuffy in there.

 

For no reason I flicked the wheel of the lighter and instantly wished that I hadn’t as, in the yellow light, I was brought starkly back to reality. I cut the gas and swallowed the apprehension lodging in my sore throat. I focused on the afterimage of the dancing flame as my eyes closed and I let myself retreat to the safety of the fencing studio. I normally rent a lock-up for the purpose, but it doesn’t really matter where I am when I conjure it, the studio always looks the same with the amber light drifting through the high windows, tinting everything with gold.

 

Father was there as usual, but behind him sat a panel of judges, and a referee paced impatiently up and down as I pulled my mask over my face. I fought well, better than ever before; my blade hit its mark every time but somehow I kept incurring faults, the referee doubling, tripling the penalties until my opponent had to do little more than claim right of way and the bout was theirs. I could feel the prickle of frustration popping like sweat all over my body and I wanted to cry out “it’s not fair!” I felt like a child again, ashamed and afraid of my father’s disappointment and I turned away as he approached.

“You did a good job, Joan. You should have won but you were cheated. I’m proud of you for trying your best.” That was something that I never thought I’d hear from his lips, and tears wet my cheeks. I felt his fingers brush them away and I cried all the harder. He did love me after all…

 

I came out of my reverie with a start. The air was thick and heavy and my face burned beneath its coating of tears. I knew that I didn’t have much time if I was going to go out with what little dignity I had been afforded. Maybe instead of fencing, I should have invited Death to a game of chess…

My heart was jumping around like a fish on the end of a line, opening a gate to a rising sense of panic as the darkness seemed to wrap itself ever tighter around me. I opened the scissors and pressed the blades beneath my jaw; my hands shaking so much by then that I needed both of them to close the handles, knowing that it would probably take several goes to do the job properly. I could smell my own sweat, sweetly rank against the earth and wood that entombed me. Soon I would smell my own blood.

 

Do you know, if it hadn’t been the make or break moment, I might have laughed at the irony of my dying body refusing to let me kill it? A tremor swept through me making my heels drum on the floor of my coffin, and I shuddered bonelessly, scissors disappearing with a dull rattle as my fingers flexed and twisted. Dark wings of truth beat around me and I fought to force them back. I had killed Jianna as surely as if I’d tied the noose myself! I clawed at my raw bruises as I felt the rope bite once more, and then Jianna’s face was above mine and she was cursing me, ancient curses that flung my body around in the confines of my guilt. My head struck the boards and back plumage engulfed me.

Then suddenly it wasn’t dark anymore. Brilliant flares of coloured light exploded before my eyes, patches of strange, tessellated shapes blooming then disappearing as an immense pressure built in my skull and then a pulse of pearlescent white obliterated everything – including me.

 

So, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it, the demise of the infamous Joan Ferguson. Not what any of us were expecting. But you know the saying – as one door closes, another one opens.


	2. AFTER

I can’t tell you where I’ve been, or for how long. I’m not convinced that I’ve even been me during this strange period, but recently I’ve begun to get this weird tugging sensation in my gut – it feels like sutures through numbed skin – and my ears are full of the muted tangle of voices engaged in rough, coarse conversation. I know the sound, it’s strangely comforting. There’s the dry taste of concrete in my mouth as well – of cells and cellars.

 

My senses expand over time, unfurling like the bud of a fern until I’m flung into the midst of understanding.

I’m in Wentworth. I am Wentworth. I feel all of it within me, the meanness of the walls, the cacophony of halted lives and the clamour of broken souls. This is my world. My domain.

 

*****

 

Oh look, there’s Vera, looking like she means business. She’s running things again, I see. I wonder what’s happened to Derek the Pimp? Colours seem muted to me now – as if I’m looking through a widow’s veil – but there is an observable glow around Vera, bright like a kaleidoscopic migraine aura. It protects her somehow, and I’m too weak right now to penetrate it.

She’s with _Mister_ Will Jackson. Aww, he looks a little peaky, doesn’t he? Looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. He has no such aura, and a quick dip into his mind and I know why. Well, well, well, who’s been a naughty boy then, eh? And here was me thinking that big, bad Jake had inhumed me when all along it had been this musclebound oaf. I smile with glee as I start thinking of ways to worsen his emotional state. But I don’t think that I want to spend too much time in there – even a few seconds makes me want to vomit as I glide past all of his limp-wristed liberal ‘people are basically good’ bullshit (all of it tainted with failure and self-pity, of course) – and it’s a relief to get out again.

 

*****

 

My, my. Oh, it has been fun these last few weeks! There’s a current of violence running through the prison, flaring and twisting as the Top Dog fails to unite her flock, and I feed from it. I particularly enjoyed sipping from Stevens whilst she lasted; her glittering malice gave me the energy to visit Mister Jackson personally, and words cannot sufficiently describe how delicious was the sense of dread that flowed from him as I played on his emotions.

And poor old Vera's had her hands full with murderers and psychopaths from both sides of the bars. Ha! She thinks it’s still a competition between us! She’s neck-deep in shit and being dragged under as she tries to support Jackson and hate Stewart. I’m strong enough to smell Vera’s anguish now but her mind remains locked away. No matter, if I wanted a tawdry, second-rate thriller I’d join the women in their afternoon TV viewing.

 

*****

 

So, they’ve witnessed my mouldering corpse and, in her relief, Vera's defences are finally down.

I join her in her office. How small she looks behind that desk; like a child. As always, I have mixed emotions around Vera. Without my guidance she wouldn’t be sitting in that chair right now. Joining with me was the making of her – and she knows it. But she lets herself down with her irrational desire to be liked, which is exactly how Mister Stewart wormed his way into her bed. And sadly, she hasn’t yet worked out how to play the long game either. We could have been friends as well as colleagues. I trusted her. We had an affinity. But what she did to me; how she treated me; I can never forgive her for that most personal of insults – betrayal. It is my wish that she never has a day’s peace until she dies and even then, may it continue on wherever she may end up.

 

I move close to her and she shivers despite the heat radiating from her skin. I can hear the blood coursing through her veins with each beat of her heart. I can hear it, that lub-dub rhythm, and I should feel angry that hers continues to function whilst mine rots in my chest but strangely I don’t. Because what I hear beneath that steady percussion is the snare drum of another.

She’s pregnant! And beyond expectation, the child is healthy.

 

How could she let that happen? Everything she’s ever worked for will fall by the wayside. I mean, she can hardly cope with the job now, how does she expect to manage when she’s struggling to meet the demands of a baby too? And to know that its father is Jake Stewart. The liar, the cuckolder, the drug dealer and murderer. The man who could destroy her. Is she really that lonely that she would risk it all for a child?

It seems that she is. She needs only to neutralise Stewart and she thinks that she can make it. Maybe with this new steely determination she can.

 

It occurs to me that I can’t follow Vera when she takes maternity leave. We only have a few more months together and then she’ll be gone. Out of my sphere for a year, if not two. It also occurs to me that she may never come back to Wentworth at all, and that is not something I’m willing to risk. Remaining here without her would be my own private hell – not quite the eighth circle as you may think I deserve, but hell nonetheless – as I witness the endless stream of detritus play out the same stories over and over without end. It’s enough to make you wish that you were dead! But I’m not interested in shaking hands with Pluto anytime soon. Not when I have the perfect escape plan.

 

I visit with the foetus. It’s very snug in here, warm and dark. Comforting. There’s no resistance as I ease myself into its developing mind and stretch out. Yes, this will do me very well, I think. Definitely a good investment for my future. And who knows, perhaps this time around my childhood will be a happy one. I’m sure it will be knowing that not only will I outlast Vera, but that I will also make her wish I’d never been born.


End file.
